Watching a friend go mad

I had to bear witness to the end of a friend the other day. He is an amazing man with a keen wit and sharp intellect and to see him wasting away has left me sadder than all my own personal troubles combined. Nothing I have to deal with can compare to the horror of seeing a brilliant mind being consumed by mental illness.

I would collaborate with him when we were both in school. He was a mad scientist, an artist, a Casanova, a con-man and entrepreneur. We would get together late at night and spiral through realities of our own making where secret societies existed, people were inhabited by fifth dimension aliens. We would talk about using sex as a way of opening the spirit to higher levels of existence. One of the last times I saw him I was reading Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges. He asked how it was and I began to explain the wonder that was Borges. I must have gotten through to him because he reached across the table and opened the book to my book mark and tore the final thirty pages out and handed them back to me. He took the rest of the book and stuck it in his bag.

It was his MO. He was star burning too bright. He was filled with ideas which seemed to be visiting from another dimension. They could fill your imagination with bright colors and sounds never heard before. The details were rich and beautiful and I could always rely on him to dress my mind with bright plumage. It was refreshing to hear about the world he saw. When I realized that this world had move from imagination to reality for him I was shocked and saddened.

He was dropped off in front of my house by another friend. He has never had a car, never used public transportation, always relied on his ability to get where he needed to be through his calling people to action. He did this a lot, manifest his thoughts through others. He lived well in the spare room of his cousin, he traveled in artistic and musical circles because he was friends with the right artists and musicians. The more I think about this gift of his the more I realize that his fears of manifesting the demons and aliens of his nightmares was not that much of a stretch for him. He was different now. He was unshaven. His clothes were the right clothes, they were his clothes, of him, but there was something off. It was as if there was a thin layer of dirt. He had a backpack like always but it was filled with newspapers. He got in my car and spread out across the backseat, spilling papers like ideas escaping from unseen cracks.

We took J to work and I told him I would give him a ride back to Elgin. It is a long drive but it had been years since I had seen him and he seemed out of it. The conversation quickly turned to how many of the things that he had always thought were just weird and twisted images in his overactive imagination were in fact real. This is not good. I try to find out more, it is partially an attempt to feel out what he is going through and partially a morbid curiosity I have always had for Schizophrenia. The stories and the images were familiar, places and people and conspiracies that he had talked about for years but they lack continuity. Before he would stick to a plot, aliens using mind control to change the course of evolution or extra-dimensional wars happening in this plane with traitors and patriots within societies that were fight in proxy. Now the stories were starting and stopping, tripping over one another as they tried to fight for space in his over full brain. In the same breath he would talk of being stuck in a karmic cycle of rebirth paying time and time again for past transgressions and about his fear of death and an eternity of hell. He was a body frozen in some hidden lab while his mind was projected into a clone and made to walk the earth surrounded by reanimated corpses. People were talking to him but only in lies, lies he knew because the world was communicating with him is morse code and hand gestures. We pulled up to the intersection of two four lane highways. There was a green shirt in the road and while I sat at the red light waiting for it to change, he stared at the shirt as if it was a clue to something. Just as the light was about to change, he jumped out of the car and walked through oncoming traffic to get the shirt. He got back in and looked it over, seeing if it would fit him.

“Is it your size?” I asked. “No.” I could not help him. Anything I said was interpreted by his wounded mind. A mind he was certain was filled with holes like Swiss cheese. He would talk and then fall off as if he was about to pass out and then start in a new. He would stare at me with a flat false smile as if he had caught me doing something and did not want to let on that he knew that I knew.

I pulled up int front of his house and let him out. He thanked me over and over for the ride and all I kept wondering was if this was the last time I was going to see him alive. He had said something on the way that stuck with me. “I am so tired of all of this. I just wish I could start over again, you know? Be a child again.” I knew that he was thinking about suicide and I tried to address it without scaring him away or talking to him as if he was a fool. He admitted that he needed to be committed and talked about having his cousin drive him to the hospital as soon as his visit with his dad was over. Did he go? I don’t know but there was something about the way he came to see me that made it feel like he was saying goodbye. I don’t know if that is just me reading into it or not. I also don’t know if it might not be the best option for him. He is already gone and any help he gets will leave him lost mentally. He said that he feared the hospital because as soon as they got him in that he would never be let back out. It was not a paranoid fear but a moment of clarity when he was seeing honestly that there may not be any “cure” for him, that he may never enter society again. He was saying that he knew he was already too far gone to ever come back. I will miss him dearly.

For My (first) Birthday

I have two every year. It is a long story and has nothing to do with this post. Mariela asked me yesterday what I wanted for my birthday by which she meant what sort of kinky shit I want to do. What I want is a felony and therefore I won’t go into it but it got me thinking about what I want that I can actually have.

Kink has been an amazing way of getting to make the world I have always wanted. If I am able to imagine it, for the most part, I am able to have it. Sex, pain, love, hate, the whole world of human emotions has been opened up and I am able to experience what it means to be human in its entirety. Existence is multifaceted, there are angles so often feared and left unexplored. There are dimensions infinitely long and infinitely thin running like threads through the world that we see and know. Pain in people who should know no pain. Joy in moments that we expect to find no pleasure in.

The book Flatland, is the story of a creature that exists in one-dimensional space. There in no height or depth, only width. One creature, say a circle, can tell another creature, say a triangle, by how it’s width changes when they are in contact with each other. I’ll give you a minute to ruminate on that.

One day this creature is taken into a second dimension. Looking down on the plane that was his existence, he can see the shapes of things in ways that he never had before. This two dimensional Virgil shows him another world within his own world and he is never the same again. This happens again and the wise two dimension creature is taken into three-dimensional space and realizes the narrowness of even his understanding.

This can go on and on.

I am a one-dimensional creature which has seen the second and third dimensions. I am at once aware that the world I know is far more complex that I initially understood but also that it is infinitely more complex than I can fathom still. I am suspended between exploring the nuance of what has been revealed and diving deeper to see how deep I can go before being crushed by the weight of all there is.

What do I want for my birthday? I want to dive slowly. I want to slowly descend through the layers of existence starting with those I was born understanding, down through this new world of shades of gray and into the lightless pit beyond. I want to hold my breath and feel the burn, I want to hear the pressure changing in my head. I want to be a piece of coal compressed and heated, changed and realigned until I am a more hardened and crystalline creature. I want to come back from this experience and cut and polish my soul until it catches and imprisons the light.

Besides, I always have another birthday to make her drink my piss from another girl’s asshole.

Letting My Imagination Go

One of the side effects of my new-found free time is that I am insanely horny during the middle of the day. Mariela was home with me last week and we ran errands for a couple of hours during the middle of the day. She was shocked at how completely my mind had been taken over by thoughts of sex and perverted acts. Everything I saw, every woman that we passed was inspiration for some dark and sexually sick flight of fancy.

My days are actually quite full. The kids are home at 2 from school and have fallen in love with the community pool. The house is perpetually in need of straightening and the clothes of five people do not wash themselves. I love it, I feel needed, I feel like I am doing something that is productive and is tangible but the stress of going from 6 in the morning to 8 at night has started to wear me down. I need a release.

It has been part of my mid-term plan to add a few playdates into the mix of my week. I have the free time, the girls are at work so it is not taking away from them, and the boys are at school. An added bonus is that my neighbors are out of the house so the screaming is less likely to end in me trying to explain to the police that she wanted me to stick a knife in her ass and piss in her mouth. Timing is an issue though. I need to make sure that I get my work done before I play because otherwise I easily degenerate from the lord of the manor to the deadbeat gigolo. And this is where my overactive imagination gets me into trouble. If I do not do something to deal with these thoughts then I become obsessed. I need an outlet for them, some halfway house for my dark passenger that will keep it in check without killing it.

Writing has always been a good outlet but I have tried to keep this blog to only the real world things that are happening. I know that most of the people who read this do not want to see the horrible images I see. They like the stories of me as a person dealing with day to day shit. What I need is a way to vent without scarring you my loyal reader.

What is that you say? You want to hear those stories? You want to know what I see? What?!? Some of you even want to help me act them out? Well then, how can I refuse? 😉

The middle ground for this is a tagging system that I am going to start using. It is simple and to the point:

  • [Title] – Real life blog entry.
  • [Scenario: Title] – A scene that I am either planning to do, want to do or already have done. This will be crazy but legal, safe looking for volunteers.
  • [Fantasy: Title] – Welcome to the dark world of my imagination. These are the sickest unrealistic flights of fancy. Not for the faint of heart. If you read it is at your own risk. If you find yourself so turned on by what you read that you can’t keep you hand out of your pants and want to make the jump for fantasy to reality, let me know and we can see what kind of scenario can be made.

So there it is, a basic warning that some of what I am going to start adding to this blog may be more than you can handle. Am I being arrogant? Am I under estimating what you are hoping that I say? No, I am making sure that you are fully informed because frankly people, my head is a sick and dark place and while I need to get it out, not everyone that reads this is ready to face the void.

Hopefully this will lead to more stories, more posts and more readers that are titillated into reading something a little more kinky than they would have.

Putting the Sub in Subconscious

I have been hearing a lot lately about subs having very vivid, very obvious dreams. The kinds of dreams with so much obvious subtext that you don’t have to be Jung to understand it. It makes me think of when I dreamed. When I was much younger, I was a avid dreamer. Lucid dreams, prophetic dreams, subconscious dreams, even waking dreams were a part of my existence. There have been several changes in my life since then (less sleep, more stress, sleep apnea) that are probably far more realistic explanations to why I don’t dream nearly as much I used to but for the sake of this post and for aesthetic reasons I am going to stick to the idea that I am much more conscious of what I want and need than I was when I was 18.When I was growing up there were many things that I assumed were impossible. Things that had resigned myself to existing only in the imagination. It is one of the first things that we are taught by our families, by society; there is a difference between fantasy and reality. Some things exist (cheese, birds, oxygen) and some do not (Santa Claus, God, a chance that I will ever give a shit about sports). It was a way of fencing in the imagination and focusing our attention on those things that are real and can be changed. Flights of fancy are all fine and good but they are limited in their practicality. There are certain unreal things that are not worth spending your mental energy on. At the age of 16 I started to explore metaphysics and religion and while these ideas allowed me to be more creative in my thinking, they still seemed to be only metaphors, images that reality wore like ceremonial dress. They are not real in the real sense of the word. They were just ways of perceiving what is real more creatively. But they did allow me to explore the idea of changing the world around me through creative thought. I could imagine the world as I wanted it more vividly when it was wearing a metaphor than when I was staring at the naked reality that sat in front of me and so I pushed more and more to incorporate these metaphor images into my life.I became a writer. I began to read surrealist writers. I started looking for images, stories, fantasies that could be create from the world around me. The old women on Michigan Ave that wore long fur coats and read any book that Oprah suggested became savage hunters wearing their Mac cosmetics like war paint. The friends who drank and smoked and wasted their potential on unproductive philosophies became manifestations of the Buddha, or Christ and Krishna. I was seeing the world that I did not like in ceremonial clothes that were at least entertaining. The reality of it was that I was not changing the world, I was changing how I saw the world. I was imagining Hitler in his underwear; I was taking the things in life I feared or disliked and making them ridiculous.

Then I got married. I got serious. I became a father. I saw that I had to be responsible, mature. I let these images slide away and concentrated on that which was in front of me. I stopped writing. I got a job that paid well and wasn’t horrible. I started seeing the good in the real world. It was as if I had spend so many years looking out past the fence that kept real and unreal separated that I had never seen what this fenced in world was all about. I began to explore the real world and it was pretty good. Were there things missing? Sure, but that is life, not everything that you want is attainable. You accept this and then you move on. I could still have those fantasies, I could still live out my imagination within my head as long as I knew that was not the same as the real world.
“I can do that?” The question echoed through my head for the first several months after ZG and I came out as kinky and open. Here was a reality filled with acts and ideas that I had long ago relegated to the world of fantasy. Threesomes, multiple partners while remaining married, hurting and violating and degrading people were some of those long held dark fantasies that I allowed myself to think about because they were clearly outside the well defined borders of the real. Now they were being offered up as common place, not only as real but as nearly ordinary. The biggest revelation was that if these ideas that I had thought to be far beyond possible were not then what other things, ideas, desires were within reach? The truth is there is nothing out of reach. It is just a matter of want, determination and manifestation. If you can imagine it, it can be real.

Maybe this is what happened to my dreams. Maybe this fundamental shift in my understanding about the make-up of reality has brought my conscious and unconscious minds into sync removing the need for the subconscious to translate. The more you feel you have control the more you feel free to explore the reality of your wants. Perhaps this is the opposite of what is happening with the subs I know who have become so highly attuned to their subconscious dreams. Where I feel more in control of not only my life but my very reality, they have all but let go of their conscious mind, their needs to control and have become completely centered in their subconscious.

The Kinkster and Daniel Webster

 

So much of my life has revolved around words. I am a writer, I work with books, I found my wife on the clearance table in the basement of our local Borders, so many ways the written word has shaped my life. When ZG and I found kink, it only seemed natural that I would find that my favorite kinks revolve around words and their use. I like psychological warfare, mental sadism and general mindfuckery are the fields on which I play my best games and where I am most at home. Recently a small back and forth on the definition of psychological play got me thinking about the words we use and how minor changes in meaning can have drastic affects.

One of the first to come to mind is the trifecta of embarrassment, humiliation and degradation. Some people will see these as various different acts, some physical, some mental, some intense others to a lesser degree, where I see them as grades on a fairly wide ranging field of psychological play. Looking at humiliation as the verbal part and degradation as a purely physical piece give to much room for error. If you define the words this way, making someone worship your feet or crawl across the floor is the same as cleaning the toilet with her hair or enema play. Humiliation can be as simple as calling someone a whore or as complicated as deriding someone in her lack of social skills. It leaves too much room for error. It make more sense to me to define the level and then let the variety of play fluctuate between verbal and physical.

There are so many of these little differences that come up, small inflections that change the meaning of everything. So like in most everything I do, the words take center stage and turn a simple scene negotiation into a legal document. I am just glad to know that there are others out there that enjoy Pedantics

What We Mean When We Talk About Scene

This post was written in response to a friend who inquired about the concept of “scene” in kink.

Ok, so this is not to be confused for any sort of authoritative understanding about the kink world. These are only my personal observations as to what others I know have done, as well as to what ZG and I have done. One of the most important things that I have noticed is that, while the whole community is obsessed with labels, no two people have the same definition of anything. All you have to do is look at the various different relationship labels to get an idea of what I mean. That being said, I will tell you what I think is meant (generally) by some of the terms and what play looks like.

The first thing to do is to divide the kink community into two general groups: those that are in it for the sex and those that are in it for the kink. If you think of this as a scale with nothing but getting laid on one end of the spectrum and nothing but kink on the other end, most people fall somewhere along that line. Separately there is the spontaneity vs. planning scale and while the two are interweaved like the double helix of the BDSM world, they are not the same for any two people, let alone any two situations.

That being said I will explain our play style as an one example among many styles. Many people that play are into imaginative, twisted and non-obvious turn-ons. We like creating “situations” and will work to create a situation for a couple of different reasons: for the escapism of the imagined scene, for the isolation of a single or small group of feelings or for the greatest shared pleasure.

Escapism often comprises fantasy and role playing. There are people that use props and sets to create as real a sense of scene as possible (using desks and uniforms for teacher student role play, using religious vestments and churches for sacrilege, etc.) but there are others who simplify the process to simply use titles. Age play is a good example of this. We have friends that age play and, while they are not always acting as Daddy/daughter, she does call him Daddy all the time. It is a term of endearment, but it is also a way for them to remain in character even while going about their daily lives. But escapism is not the only reason for creating a scene.

A large number of people use scenes to isolate emotions that they want to explore. The use of a scene allows for a safe environment for one to feel things you may not feel on a regular basis. The scene that ZG had with P was a prime example of this. P and I had talked about what it was that ZG wanted out of this adventure and came to the conclusion that she wanted to be pushed and degraded, given that in most of her day-to-day life she is respected and looked up to. Also, the idea of taking this classy, well put together facade that is very hard to maintain 24/7 and tearing it down was an attempt to free her from the pressure of being perfect — if only for a little while. She wants to be taken out of her comfort zone and left to deal with a situation that she has no control over. The freedom of not making a decision is very alluring. So the scene is roughly sketched out with an idea of what emotions you want to address (jealousy, humiliation, anger, powerlessness). Sometimes the emotional state will be worked on before hand by having required tasks or seeded thoughts to create fear or anticipation. Sometimes the scene is started cold and built from nothing. A carefully crafted scene is difficult because you have to plan it for a person without letting that person know what they are going to be put through. The more the mind knows, the more it can avoid delving into real emotions, so the Dom usually keeps the sub in the dark as much as possible. The challenge is that even the best laid plans will often miss the real emotional trigger, so a good Dom needs to be flexible and keep the scene at least somewhat fluid. These can be the most intense scenes, and are often cathartic and beautiful, but also not something that you can do in a regular basis.

By far, the most common scene type is built out of the kinks and interests of the people playing. We all have different kinks and preferences and a good host will figure out the games and things that each person likes to do and try and figure out a way to play on all the different perversions. An example of this would be when we had our friend M over the other night. She likes to be disoriented and screwed with, and ZG loves the girl-on-girl time, so what I did was took the two of them and blindfolded and bound their hands behind their backs. I threw them in the bathroom with the fan on to create as much white noise as possible. Then I took them one at a time into the next room where I stripped them and started toying and playing with them. I would get one naked and throw her back in bathroom and then get the other naked and throw her back in the bathroom. They were confused by the time alone, punctuated by the rough use and disorienting walks between the rooms. After a couple of trips back and forth I finally brought them together and let them cling to each other in contrast to the rough handling I had given them. The end was a sweaty mess of fucking and sucking that was fun for all involved. The scene was successful partially because of the built scene, but mostly because of the willingness of all parties to enjoy the scene and roll with it, no matter what came.

So there you have it, a general understanding (as far as I know it) of what is meant when we talk about scene. It is not black and white and often it does not mean the same thing for the different participants but at least it is a starting point. It is a way to approach this monolith that is the mangled wreck of your emotional and sexual desires without the years of therapy. Don’t get me wrong, you will not be saving any money. The truth is you will spend more on toys, lube and condoms than you could have spent on three shrinks, but it will be money well spent.

Being a Dom is… learning to edit.

As most of you already know my girl (ZG) is my editor. There is little that can escape my mouth without her watchful eye scanning it once, twice, and sometimes three times for errors. It is like many of the things in my life, something that I have defaulted to her on, yet another burden brushed off for someone else to pick up. I think it is about time that I started carrying my weight in the area of grammatical correctness.

 I have something to admit. I am a really shitty writer. I have no sense of grammar, I cannot find a way around without the crutches and orthopedic shoes that are clichés, and my punctuation marks are like feral cats living in the attic of my mind. I never have been very good at any of these things and have gotten by on spell check, a quick tongue in person and the unfortunate state of contemporary literature. I let people believe that a few poly-syllabic words thrown into a discourse comparable to that of your average eighth grader are hints at a greater intellect hiding in the kitsch of hipster slackness. I lean on the idea that all great authors have great editors (i.e. Raymond Carver) and that I am merely following a tradition.

E. e. Cummings is a fantastic poet (yeah I said it, you want to fight about it?) not because of his random and seeming erratic style but in spite of it. Picasso was a fantastic artist that left a tradition that he had mastered to explore the new. I have yet to establish an ability to write in a straight line yet and for me to think  that I am anything greater than lazy at this point is arrogant and self-destructive.

So what am I trying to do other than to sound like I am looking for kudos through self-deprecation? Call it proof of concept. I am editing this on my own to see if I can. I will cheat a little and let the spell check look this over but other than that I am on my own. Feel free to correct, harass and mock my issues.